#The Anthem of Return, Born from the Altar of Patience#

[نورالدين بليغ]

#The Anthem of Return, Born from the Altar of Patience#

I. The Holy Flood

The tears of joy burst forth, no mere showers

From a timid cloud, but an averse flood of light,

Washing the time of scarcity, breaking the ancient blight.

They stream upon the soil of the Ancient Land,

Not simple droplets, but rivers of mystical certainty at hand,

Quenching the eternal thirst, long as the dragon's shadow, twisted and tight.

Where Patience was an emerald arch for the soul's ascent,

The waiting, a solid anchor that never once bent.

This land, a captive mother beneath the weeping willow of yearning,

Consumed by the desire to hear the sound of life returning.

And now she drinks the vintage taste of the aged return,

Causing the spikes of hope to rise, forever they will burn.

II. The Beating of the Souls

The Souls freed themselves before the bodies were allowed to leave,

Like the Phoenixes resurrecting from the ashes of reprieve.

The Spirit never truly left the place, it was a thread of light

Connecting the shore to the desired stream of union, day and night.

Embers defying the ice of an exile that would not fade.

It pulsed in every breath, every perceptible sigh they made,

Watching the Star when all fall asleep on the pillow of pain.

Today, it embraces its specters in the sovereign lane

That kept engraved the imprint of their long-suspended tread.

The Pulse has returned...

Not the ordinary rhythm of a heart that beats unled,

But a legendary tempo, shaped by secret vows,

Where obstinacy made its anthem from the prison's silent vows.

The Pulse has returned to this heart that knew, out of season,

Only the pact of Patience and the promise of the Future as reason.

III. The Eloquence of Silence

Patience here is no mere virtue, but the river of Kawsar* flowing,

A source of living water gushing from the depth of being, knowing.

Hope was not a fleeting wish, but a compass without end,

Pointing to the sun of Truth whose day shall never bend.

This land today is not just a city, but a living epic's trace,

Written by the fingers of the returnees on the captive space,

With the ink of white pearls: the highest eloquence to impart,

The purest of metaphors, signing the delivery, a work of art.

It is the body of Motherhood reclaiming its power's hue,

A Scripture that the Present writes, bursting forth from the void it flew.

Behold the Miracle that blooms from the ashes of deep sorrow:

That the tear becomes the crown of an endless festive morrow,

And that Silence, after the long tear of absence and the great divide,

Is the greatest Word, the final, noblest Art to abide.

#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#